She flung her newfound friend in between the three haystacks. Spinning around in its aftermath, she fell on the cobbles, onto her right side and hand, chuckling madly as Staefen landed dead-on only for his head to resurface from the pile shortly afterwards, with him deciding it would be his bed for the night. The drunken duo would come to an end soon, even she in her intoxicated status realized that very soon. In her head, however, this adventure would not end so prematurely, despite the loss of half of its members. No, she decided to do what she did best, and what she loved the most beyond being drunk. She waved her friend goodbye, her words perhaps a little ominous, and staggered off, westwards, her right hand's fingers wrapped on the hilt of her blade. There was something she wished to see to, if way over half a pitcher of mead in her stomach would allow her to.
She had no idea how far she had traveled from Bree, or in which direction. Sometimes the ground beneath her felt soft and grassy, sometimes it was hard stone, that is all she could make out. The roads were quiet and dark. She couldn't see or hear much beyond her own feet. Her face had connected with the grass a few times, but she pushed herself up. She was determined to get to her intended place, despite having forgotten what or where it was. Then, from the corner of the eye, a flicker. A light. She turned around, nearly falling down once more. She saw some shapes, with a flickering light amongst them. She kept staring at the approaching, blurry conglomeration.
"Hey, woman, what you lookin' at?" One of the shapes spoke out. She looked at it in clear confusion, her brain trying to process the information, the alcohol slowing it down.
"She's drunk off her arse, can't you see? Waiting for us to help her out!"
They burst out laughing. She began to make some shapes out. Four men, a torch in between them, leather clothes and sparse furs and some indistinct weapons. She flails her arms in the air, in a pathetic attempt at waving. "Hellooooo!" They looked at her as if she were a little child. "I'm Gwyn, and I'm uhhh... I'm looking for a place! You can help me, yes?"
A few looks were exchanged, two shoulders raised, a chuckle suppressed. "Yeah, sure we can help you out. How about you hand us that pouch you have over there?"
Seaver's pouch was still dangling by her waist, tied to one of the few supports her belt had. She shook her head childishly. "Sorry-sorry, the coin isn't mine, it's my friend... But he isn't around..." Realization strikes her dumb face. "I've got to give him back his money! But where is heeee..."
One of the four took a step towards her. "How about this lass, we help you out with your place -and- we take the pouch back to your friend, how's that sound?"
She squinted, the man now closer to her. Her eyes trailed down to his tattered clothing, his lowered facemask, his arms, his hand, the dagger the man's hand was on. She blinked twice, raising her eyes again. "Sorry, maybe another night... I've got to go, I've got to go, I've got to look for my Seaver friend~", she said, taking a careful step - or rather stumble - back.
From the back, another of the four advances, shoulder to shoulder with the first. Attempts to drag him back by the remaining two failed, as he approached with an iron shortsword in his hand, his other hand extended towards her waist. "Alright woman, we've no time for your fuckin' games, hand the money and nobody gets hurt."
Gwyndriel froze for a second. She inspected the new one. A sudden cold breeze strikes her face as she gains a moment of clarity, and an odd gleam in her eyes. She curls her lips into a smile. "Sure... Sure, I'll give you something, why don't you take a step forward and take it, it's... Right here!"
The man's hand was nearly within reach of the coin satchel, before his attempt was suddenly interrupted by Gwyndriel's dagger unexpectedly entered his chest and pushed him back. Just to the left of his heart - a rather badly aimed strike. She ripped the short blade from the man's falling body while stepping backwards, nearly stumbling as she did, narrowly missing the instinctive swing by the second individual. Her right hand reached for her machete, her breathing was frantic, her light smile twisted into a form of snarl, her eyes with a glint of an unsettling craving for only one thing.
With barely any hesitation, she charged forward once more, but the bandits were quick to unsheathe their weapons and circle her. She impacted against one of them, his dagger just grazing her arm as she nearly fell onto him - her dagger didn't, however, miss the mark, planting itself straight on the bandit's lower chest. She swung her machete around, hoping to delay the other two from getting onto her. Abusing the momentum gained in the short lunge, she managed to bolt past the defunct man, but not before her left arm is slashed, the short blade cutting through her leather chest piece with relative ease, and her skin even more so. She let out a pained yelp, turning around, avoiding another slash, her eyes moving between the encroaching bandits in a panicked fashion, her thought process only functioning intermittently.
She takes on the bandit coming from the left, realizing the other does not seem to have any light weaponry on him. Her left hand, holding the dagger, rises to meet the opponent's shortsword. She is suddenly half disarmed, and the bandit is suddenly half unbalanced. She lets forth an angry cry, her sword-arm rising to then fall down onto her foe's chest, burying itself deep whilst shattering some ribs in the process. Her killing is halted by her suddenly being thrown to the side - the survivor's thick two-handed sword struck her side in a partial glance, causing her balance to be ripped away from her, alongside her machete from the dead man's chest. She lands on her side, harshly. Her breathing gets heavier, she manages to sit up but she realizes she has no time - she rolls to her right to narrowly miss a downwards cleave, and rolls some more to make a little space between the two. Just as she manages to get on her feet, she notices the charging fellow, challenging her previous roar with one of his own, one craving for vengeance for his fallen friends.
But he was matched with a similar thirst from her. She ducked beneath his lateral swing, managing to just slash the bandit's side as she passed by him. His attempt at half-swording results in Gwyn's left shoulder being struck, but she manages to parry another identical attempt. She lunges to the left, grasping the man's arm with her free hand, lowering his weapon just in time for her to slash open his carotid artery, blood beginning to splurt out of the fresh wound. He dropped his heavy weapon, one of his hands immediately reaching for his own neck, and as he looked to turn towards his assailant all he saw was a blade strike aimed right in between his eyes. The slash nearly misses, the man's face only partly cut, but the swing continued and cut open a wound on his upper chest. He stumbles backwards, defenseless and bleeding. Gwyndriel, now standing over him with a twisted grin on her face, proceeded to lower the machete onto his chest, each time with more fervour, every swing increasingly wrathful, until it made the distinctive noise of metal clashing against cobbles.
She began lashing out at them verbally, her voice raspy and unstable. She hated them all. She moved onto each of the individuals on the floor in turn. She lopped off an arm of one who was still in the process of bleeding. She stopped when she could barely feel her right arm anymore. She slumped onto the ground, barely even sitting. Her breath slowly weakened, and slowed down. She dragged herself to what looked like her dagger, her vision still rather blurry despite the recent action, and retrieved it. She fumbled trying to return her weapons to their respective places on her belt. She kept looking around her, lost, no longer with a purpose. Yet, she was satisfied. Her tired expression mustered a smile, one that only herself could see.
Overnight, her brain almost entirely stopped working following the smile. It worked tirelessly to erase several of her memories before, during and after the slaughter, which she hardly even remembered. She had no idea how she returned from a place she didn't even localize at the time, and she had no idea why she felt so weak, although a massive headache gave her a guess or two. When it was done, it prepared to get her up. If her brain had a personality of its own, it would cackle, revelling in the pleasure of watching an extremely confused Gwyndriel waking up to a bloodied claymore across her chest, and two nearly fresh wounds, and her leather outfit nearly covered in dried blood, and lying by the entrance of the Dawnhall.
(( The aftermath of a little RP session. This happened in the late night or early morning of 19/02/2016, somewhere south of Bree. Travelers may find the butchered bodies - not of player characters - early in the next day by a road. And yes, the title is a pun, or at the very least an attempt at one. ))
